Tomorrow
by krazykitkat
Summary: It's not enough, but it has to be.


TITLE: Tomorrow  
AUTHOR: Katrina McDonnell  
EMAIL: mcdonnem@tpg.com.au  
SPOILERS: None really.   
RATING: M-Rish (sexual references)  
DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of   
Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement   
is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled. "Will You Love   
Me Tomorrow?" belongs to Carole King.  
ARCHIVE: Sure, but please ask first.  
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated...as long as it doesn't involve red pen   
and lots of notes (that's my postgrad supervisor's territory).  
ORIGINALLY POSTED: 24 June, 2001.   
AUTHOR'S NOTES: While editing my thesis, I was listening to Carole   
King's 'Tapestry'. "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" jumped out and thumped   
me around the head a couple of times. The story quickly took form, more   
interesting and a few pages shorter than 'Statistical Prediction of Tropical   
Cyclogenesis'. Though I have considered renaming the thesis and submitting   
my fanfic instead: 'From Tropical Cyclones to West Wing in One Easy   
Step'. Wouldn't my supervisor be thrilled!   
THANKS: To my wonderful editor and friend, Kat. Thank you for your   
support and encouragement as always. And damn you for already wondering ;)   
SUMMARY: It's not enough, but it has to be.  
  
  
  
  
*Tonight you're mine completely  
You give your love so sweetly  
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes  
But will you love me tomorrow?*  
  
  
She's standing in my office doorway. With that look. I know what I'll   
be doing tonight.   
  
Someone has once again shattered her world. She won't tell me who   
or why or what. We don't talk about such inconsequential matters. The   
means are immaterial, I just sweep up the pieces.   
  
I've seen that look too many times over the course of this administration.   
When she's left out of the loop, blind sided by a leak or reporter's source,   
forced to clean up the disaster area left in Hurricane Josh's wake. And it's   
now her constant companion, haunting her features. She tries to hide it,   
but I've always paid close attention to her. It's there in the slight slump of   
the shoulders, her hand rubbing her neck, the chewing of her lip. Most of   
all it's in her eyes.  
  
And those eyes are now asking me the question she already knows the   
answer to.   
  
  
*Is this a lasting treasure  
Or just a moment's pleasure?  
Can I believe the magic of your sighs?  
Will you still love me tomorrow?*  
  
  
We barely make it into my apartment before hands start grabbing and   
undoing. She shoves me back into the door, slamming it shut. There's   
an unspoken rule, no touching until we're inside. But then all bets and   
clothes are off.   
  
Her blouse is on the floor, on top of my jacket. In her haste one of my   
buttons pops off, a slight tinkle as it lands and rolls in the direction of   
the kitchen. The shirt attempts to capture it in a flying lunge. Our   
tongues duel as we unzip each other and step out of our pants. Bra,   
undershirt, panties, boxers quickly follow.  
  
I'm really getting too old for this. Beds were invented for a reason. But   
we follow our tradition, hard and fast, still standing. I turn us one eighty,   
pressing her into the wood. One advantage of her height, she is able to   
obtain great leverage. No time for gentle touches or lingering kisses,   
foreplay isn't required.  
  
She grasps my shoulders as I drive home, our moans synchronized with   
the movement and each other. My beard rubs against her shoulder; she's   
going to end up with a burn if the return period between these meetings   
keeps on decreasing. We slam together in a final burst of energy, before   
sliding down the door until my knees hit the floor. We're still joined, our   
heads resting exhausted on each other's shoulder. Our sweat intermingles,   
as she begins to shudder and her first tear runs down my back. I gently   
rock her. She won't let me see the silent tears, or brush them away from   
her cheeks. She will only allow me to feel them flowing across my skin.   
It's not enough, but it has to be. We will stay here until the river evaporates   
and our skin grows cold. Only then will we adjourn to my bedroom. This   
is our tradition.   
  
  
*Tonight with words unspoken  
You say that I'm the only one  
But will my heart be broken  
When the night meets the morning sun?*  
  
  
The coupling in my bed is slow, sedate, loving. Here we are allowed   
the luxury to explore each other, to touch, to stroke, to feel. She arches   
above me, the streetlight highlighting a small smile on her lips as she   
lowers herself onto me. Our hands are interlocked, the rhythmic motion   
begins again, slower, sweeter. She lowers her head and our lips meet.   
Long, sensuous kisses, full of promises and wishes. We soar together,   
before she falls into my arms.   
  
I pull the covers up over us as she kisses me, her thanks for gluing her   
back together. She rolls off and settles facing me, her eyelids fluttering   
closed as the emotional and physical exhaustion overtakes her. I place   
a kiss on her forehead and my hand on her cheek. She finds the pressure   
comforting and my thumb lightly strokes her skin. I'll remain in this   
position, watching over her, touching her, until she falls asleep. Her   
face relaxes as the worry bleeds away and her breathing becomes slow   
and even. She's beautiful. But I can't tell her, because we don't speak.   
  
We both work with words, but when it comes to us, we're dyslexic.   
There's so much I want to tell her. So much I want to ask her. What   
are we? I know who I am, what I want us to be. Sometimes, as she calls   
my name and whispers the words, I think she wants the same. But I'm   
afraid to question her, afraid that I'll drive her away, to another man   
whose beard will abrade her skin.   
  
So I don't ask. We speak only with our hands, our lips and tongues, our   
skin, our bodies joining. It's the only language we trust ourselves with.   
And in the morning she will be gone. I will wonder if it ever happened,   
but the clothes on the floor near the door will reassure me. I'll go to   
work, we'll see each other and act normally, as if we weren't making   
love just hours before. We will work together and apart, sometimes   
laugh, sometimes fight. There will be no talk of the night, of bare skin,   
of touching, of stolen glances. Until once again she appears at my door   
with that look and asks the question she already knows the answer to.   
This is who we are. This is what we do.   
  
She's sleeping now, but I can't relax. I don't want to stop looking at her  
features that are already burnt into my corneas. I don't want to lose contact   
with her skin. If I maintain the connection, maybe she'll stay. And next   
time she appears at my door, she'll be whole with a smile on her face.   
We'll go to her apartment, make it past the front door without tears. We'll   
make leisurely love in her bed. We'll speak. In the morning we will wake   
up in each other's arms. It will be our new tradition. And it will be enough.  
  
My eyelids drift closed as my body surrenders to sleep. I silently whisper   
the question I can't ask. Here in the depth of night I already know the answer.   
It's not enough, but it will do until tomorrow.  
  
  
*I'd like to know that your love  
Is love I can be sure of  
So tell me now, and I won't ask again.  
Will you still love me tomorrow?*  
  



End file.
